


disintegrate

by insincerely



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Cousin Incest, Erik Killmonger Lives, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 10:26:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14714298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insincerely/pseuds/insincerely
Summary: This is how it ends.





	disintegrate

This is how it ends:

Erik finds T'Challa near the edge of the forest, barely able to support himself as he digs vibranium claws into the tree he's leaning into. Warning signals blare like police sirens in Erik's mind, something in his chest twisting with an ugly sense of foreboding.

He's barely made his presence known when T'Challa turns from where he'd been hunched over, back facing the chaos and gore and utter destruction, to gaze at him. There's a stricken expression on his face, and Erik's first instinct is to reach out, get his hands on T'Challa, check for broken bones, gaping wounds, something, anything–

"What? What is it?" he urges, voice harsh through the jaguar suit. Erik lets the mask retract, the warm, charged air biting at his skin as he holds T'Challa close, fingers skimming through the expanse of his suit.

His touch doesn't falter– he knows every part of T'Challa intimately, knows each crevice and dip like the back of his hand, which is why his heart freefalls to his gut when he finds that T'Challa's arm is fading– turning to literal dust beneath his very fingertips.

"What?" Erik repeats, his own voice a distant echo in his ears, and suddenly, it feels like Oakland all over again.

*

"You think this changes anything?" Erik's sitting by the edge of the bed, his mouth pulled up in a vicious sneer. There are no restraints bounding him right now, no Dora Milaje stationed and poised to intervene, but he stays right where he is, eyes sharp with defiance.

T'Challa has his hands clasped behind him, his brow furrowed and lips pursed, exactly the same way he'd looked when he'd dragged Erik to the mouth of the cave, the sunset spilling over them as he said with pure resolve, "You will not die today, N'Jadaka."

Erik wants to knock the expression clean off his face.

"I could not let you die." T'Challa replies, but what infuriates Erik is that it's spoken like an apology, whereas with anyone else, it would've been an unpayable debt, a reminder that he will forever be in their mercy.

"You should've." Erik spits back with all the venom he could muster. T'Challa flinches, but it passes quickly enough in a blink of an eye.

"You will stay here until the council and I have decided on the next course to take." There's a hardness to his voice now, the masked indifference of a king. "Until then, you are under my custody. I will have guards stationed around the perimeter, so if you're thinking to try anything, I suggest you don't."

Erik bares his teeth, gold catching in the light pouring into the room. It's easier to hate T'Challa like this, easier to tip the scale back from where it'd been dangling close to one side in the face of T'Challa's soft eyes and downturned lips.

"Just like I said, huh?" Erik pins him down with a glare, one corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk despite it all. "You ain't foolin' anyone, cuz. Y'all might've cooped me up in this fancy room, but a prison's still a prison no matter what."

T'Challa's jaw tightens, and it's back, that same flash of emotion that can't be interpreted as anything else but guilt. He stands there, mouth parted like he's got something worth saying in the silence, then thinks better of it, and instead turns away.

*

"You ain't gonna die." It's futile, but he tries anyway, gathering all of what remains of T'Challa in his arms. "You hear me? This ain't how it's gonna end–"

If only he could will these words into existence, speak them over and over until the madness is reversed and T'Challa is whole and safe and just _here_ , with him. If only he'd stepped in between T'Challa and those fucking clowns, masquerading around like heroes while asking for favors in the same breath–

But more than anything, Erik wishes he could grant T'Challa the same mercy he'd shown him back then, spare him from this hurt that he doesn't even deserve.

*

"So you just gonna stand there or what?" Erik barks out, glancing at T'Challa over his shoulder. He drops the staff he'd been practicing with, lets it clatter to the floor before turning to face T'Challa. "C'mon cuz, step up. Been a while since I last kicked your ass."

The only indication that this is said in good humor is the telltale glint in Erik's eyes, sparkling with mirth that T'Challa easily catches on to.

"I _was_ going to refuse," T'Challa steps forward, unbuttoning his robe calmly before setting it aside. "but now I have to defend my honor from that scandalous mouth of yours."

The corners of Erik's mouth pinches into a barely suppressed grin. "Go on then, cuz. I ain't got all day."

Taunts almost never work on T'Challa, something that Erik has come to learn in the recent months they've started sparring together. Almost, because sometimes they _do_ have their desired effect, such as now, with T'Challa charging headfirst, swift and methodical like a panther.

Erik blocks an incoming jab with his forearm, then does a roundhouse kick that T'Challa evades by ducking low. Seeing an opening, T'Challa bodily tackles Erik to the ground, face pressing into his chest as Erik takes the brunt of the fall.

"You playin' dirty now, huh?" Erik's words carry throughout the room, breathless but evidently amused, if the lilt in his voice is anything to go by.

T'Challa eases up just enough to look down at Erik, arms braced on either side of him. "And who is to blame for that, eh?"

There's something peculiar about the way T'Challa's eyes are shining, any hint of animosity or hesitance diminished by his fondness.

The sight of it makes Erik want to do something stupid, like push T'Challa away and call him names, or something even stupider, like curl his hand at the back of T'Challa's neck, then pull him down until–

Erik mentally shakes the thought away, jaw working in annoyance before he decides to gain back some semblance of control.

With a grunt, he pushes himself off the floor, quickly rolling them around so that T'Challa is the one caged in his arms. He grabs the staff as an afterthought, pressing it down T'Challa's shoulders so he can barely move.

"Yield." Erik snaps, harsher than he'd intended. He loosens his hold by a fraction, slowly exhaling until he feels he can trust his voice again.

"C'mon," he tries again, softer this time. "yield."

T'Challa blinks, his long eyelashes distracting Erik long enough that he misses the hand that T'Challa reaches out to touch his bicep with.

"Yes," he murmurs gently, like Erik's a fragile, fragile thing. "I yield, N'Jadaka."

Heat curls in the pit of Erik's stomach, but he ignores this in favor of jumping away from T'Challa. He scowls at the floor the entire time it takes for T'Challa to get back up his feet, and continues to do so even when T'Challa's buttoned and dusted off his robe.

"...you were good today, N'Jadaka." T'Challa says, no doubt trying to dispel some of the awkwardness permeating in the room.

Erik swallows the lump in his throat and wonders, _What is there to say?_

He could reply with something snarky like _Nah, your weak ass just couldn't handle me_ , or let his gratitude show for once with _Thanks, not just for this, but for everythin' else._

Or he could grab T'Challa by the wrist, look into those warm, warm eyes and demand _What do you want from me?_

But instead what he finds himself saying is,

"Good enough to be a War Dog?"

T'Challa's eyebrows shoot up in bewilderment, and for a moment he just stands there, head slightly tilted to the side as he studies Erik with a considering look.

Then he smiles, small but authentic.

"Perhaps." he says eventually, and to Erik, it almost sounds like a promise.

*

T'Challa's legs give way into nothingness, ashes coming up in a gust of wind. Erik is there to catch him, collecting T'Challa in his arms.

"T'Challa," he chokes out, like the name had been wrenched right out of him. There's a backlog in his throat, all the words he'd left unsaid collecting like decay.

"T'Challa–" He tries again, then pauses, swallows hard instead.

_What is there to say?_

Then, as if sensing his quiet despair, T'Challa reaches out to him, cupping Erik's jaw with his good hand, the one that hasn't scattered into dust. His touch is as tender as his voice when he parts his lips and says,

"N'Jadaka–"

*

"N'Jadaka–"

T'Challa is hot against him, the rigid line of his back pressed up into Erik's chest. He's got one hand braced against the wall and another wrapped around Erik's wrist, grip as tight as the one Erik has around his cock.

"Shhh," Erik murmurs, lips brushing the curve of T'Challa's ear. "Keep it down, cuz. Don't want the Dora bustin' my ass for this."

T'Challa responds with a breathless laugh, fingers loosening their hold so Erik can move his hand faster, working T'Challa with quick, measured strokes.

It's quiet, mostly because they have to be. They've got roughly five minutes before they have to face the council, with T'Challa as king and Erik as a War Dog.

"Couldn't stop thinking 'bout this while I was out there," Erik mouths along the nape of T'Challa's neck, reacquinting himself with what he'd been deprived of for almost three months while out on his mission. "couldn't stop thinking 'bout you."

The hint of intimacy suprises both of them, T'Challa moreso than Erik, because suddenly he's stilled in Erik's arms, and the fingers that had been resting along his bicep falls away.

For a second Erik considers drawing back, sure that he's somehow fucked this all to hell, but then T'Challa's turning his head around so that he can look directly into Erik's eyes.

"It is the same for me," T'Challa says, his words slow and deliberate, like he wants each and every syllable to reach Erik, to contour into the ridges of his ears so he won't ever forget. "I have missed you terribly, N'Jadaka."

Erik feels any and all pretenses leave him in that moment, caught in the dazzle of T'Challa's eyes in this proximity. They've done this enough times, touching and taking and fucking, but when Erik's gaze drifts down to T'Challa's mouth, there is still a touch of hesitancy.

Then Erik hisses _Fuck it_ and leans in. T'Challa meets him halfway, his warm smile melting into the kiss.

Erik holds T'Challa closer, and thinks he could live in this moment forever.

*

Maybe it was always going to end like this. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, none of it mattered– not the vengeance that had driven him for more than half his life, nor the absolution that had been offered so readily to him.

Maybe, in the end, what will always remain is the loss, and the weightlessness of it in his very arms. Same with his baba, same as now, with T'Challa's listless eyes slipping away from him, staring dully at the sky.

Just a little more, just a little more, Erik's heartbeat thrums loud in his ears. Just enough to stretch each passing second, enough for Erik to press his forehead into the hollow of T'Challa's chest–

And when that, too, falls away, caving in into nothingness, Erik cranes his neck upwards, catching a glimpse of T'Challa's face, and even in devastation he is still so beautiful, and Erik wants nothing more than to kiss him, keep him, always, and–

*

This is how it ends:

When Erik leans in in _in_ , this time, nothing leans back.

**Author's Note:**

> me at the end of IW: what could be more painful than t'challa turning into dust  
> my shit ass brain: how about t'challa turning into dust _while_ erik's holding him  
>  me: .........wack


End file.
